


Circumvolution

by GreyMichaela



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Broken Hearts, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Sid is the master of terrible timing, set after 2018-19 Cup run
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-02-28 11:24:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18755488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyMichaela/pseuds/GreyMichaela
Summary: He’s seen Geno after they’ve lost before. There’s always a period of adjustment, a time of struggle to accept that the season really is over, that they’ve lost, there’ll be no Cup for them that year. It hurts, and it’s hard to accept, and doing it alone is even harder. For Geno, in Russia, none of his actual team around him, it has to be exponentially more difficult.But he’s never seen Geno look like this, his normally hangdog features settled into downright misery.At least he’s home, Sid thinks, but he can’t comfort himself with the thought.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> RPF disclaimer: real people, work of fiction, absolutely no disrespect intended.
> 
> People have been posting pictures of Geno at Worlds and he looks absolutely haggard and miserable, like he's one depression nap away from a full breakdown. This, obviously, gave me many feelings that I needed help with, so I wrote this, since I can't cuddle him better myself.
> 
> Circumvolution:  
>  _noun_
> 
> 1: a winding or folding about something: the circumvolutions of a boa.
> 
> 2: a fold so wound: the circumvolution of a snail shell.
> 
> 3: a winding in a sinuous course; a sinuosity: the circumvolutions of the river.
> 
> 4: a roundabout course or procedure.
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: Geno's competing in Worlds but I'm handwaving the fuck out of the schedule, roster, etc., to get the story where I want it to go. Suspension of disbelief is encouraged.

It’s Sid who breaks.

He blames it on Taylor, who has long been aware of his aversion to social media and took it upon herself years ago to keep him updated on the team during the off-season. Sid doesn’t mind usually—it’s helpful, having her send him pictures or videos of Kris and Catherine doing their family photoshoot on the beach, or the rookies in Cozumel, probably doing stupid stuff but at least far enough from Sid that he won’t have to clean up after them. Theoretically. It helps him keep his thumb on the pulse of the team even when he’s in LA or up in Cole Harbour, and it means he doesn’t have to get online himself.

But when she starts sending him pictures of Geno training for Worlds, Sid’s stomach drops. The first one he gets is a selfie with a fan. The fan is grinning manically, holding the camera high enough to get them both in frame. Geno is staring at the camera, no smile in sight.

_ Shit, _ Sid thinks. He doesn’t respond to Taylor, which he knows won’t stop her.

Sure enough, the next morning he wakes up to a video of the Russian team filing down a cramped hallway, offering high-fives to someone with his back to the camera. Sid lies in his bed, Sam snuffling softly in her sleep by his feet, and watches each player lift his hand high and slap their palms together as they pass the man. Geno, though—his high-five is waist-level, a brief hand held out to touch and then pulled away nearly as quickly.

Sid’s stomach settles somewhere around his ankles.

He’s seen Geno after they’ve lost before. There’s always a period of adjustment, a time of struggle to accept that the season really is over, that they’ve lost, there’ll be no Cup for them that year. It hurts, and it’s hard to accept, and doing it alone is even harder. For Geno, in Russia, none of his actual team around him, it has to be exponentially more difficult.

But he’s never seen Geno look like this, his normally hangdog features settled into downright misery.

_ At least he’s home, _ Sid thinks, but he can’t comfort himself with the thought. 

He gets a steady stream of pictures, Instagram posts, and short videos from Taylor over the next few weeks. Each one feels worse than the last. Geno in his Russia uniform, the bright red with the Cyrillic lettering feeling weird and  _ wrong _ to Sid. He should be in yellow and black, not red and white. Geno’s eyes are intent in the pictures of him at practice, face sharp with determination. 

Off the ice, the pictures of him with fans continue. Sid watches short videos of him giving autographs without a word, handing back the pen and paper silently and walking away before the fan can thank him, or posing as fans beam and he stares at the camera in stone-faced stillness.

_ It’ll get easier, _ Sid thinks, clutching his phone in the line at the grocery store and staring fixedly at the screen.  _ He’ll feel better soon, remember that next year’s another chance. _

He gives the clerk an autograph because she doesn’t ask for one but clearly recognizes him, and savors the smile she gives him as she clutches the scrap of paper to her chest after. His own smile slips as he leaves the store, though. He can’t stop thinking about Geno, how miserable he looks, cored out and hollow.

It’s a week later when Taylor sends him the picture of Geno smiling.

Sid thinks he can actually  _ feel _ his heart breaking as he stares at the picture. Geno is looking away from the camera, toward someone offscreen, and he’s smiling, mouth curving and teeth showing. To most people, he probably looks genuinely happy, but Sid knows better. Geno’s eyes—his eyes still look empty. Exhausted. Hopeless.

He’s lunging for his laptop before he can think better of it. The next six hours are a scramble of activity. He has to take Sam to his parents’, dodge their questions about where he’s going. Call his trainer, tell him he’ll be a few days late. Pack. Debate what he’s packing, unpack it all. Put it all back in. Empty the fridge so his mother doesn’t have to clean rotten food out if this takes longer than he expects.

Part of him is aware that he’s keeping himself busy to avoid thinking about what he’s doing, but the rest of him ignores it, focusing on finding the right pair of socks, the perfect tie to go with the shirt he chose.

He calls Taylor on his way to the airport. She’s still in Pittsburgh, settled happily into her new job with the Pens and already making waves.

“Squid!” she says, and Sid smiles at the road.

“Hey, I’m taking a quick trip, just a couple of days. Just wanted to let you know in case you need anything.”

There’s silence for a moment. And then— “Are you going to Moscow?”

_ Dammit. _ Sid’s tendency to forget exactly how sharp his baby sister is will be his downfall someday. He doesn’t answer for a minute, and Taylor just waits.

“I have to,” Sid finally says.

“I know,” Taylor tells him.

“You—you saw him,” Sid says, changing lanes for the airport’s exit. “I have to go.”

“What are you going to do?”

Sid laughs almost bitterly. “Fuck if I know.”

“You’ll figure it out.” She sounds soothing, and completely confident in Sid’s ability to not fuck this up. He wishes he had a tenth of her belief.  “Call me if you need anything.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. I have to go.” There’s enough traffic that Sid has to take a minute, figure out where the long-term parking is, which way he needs to go. “Love you.”

“Love you too, duh.” Taylor hangs up and Sid’s eyes sting briefly. He forces the feeling away and concentrates on finding his way.

He doesn’t let himself relax until he’s tucked into his seat, hat pulled low over his eyes. He’s pretty sure he didn’t get spotted going through the airport, and there’s no flicker of recognition in the pretty stewardess’s eyes when she bends to greet him and offer him a warm towel. Still, Sid keeps his sunglasses on and his face turned away until they’re in the air.

He gives some thought to texting Geno once the captain’s given the all-clear. What would he even say, though?  _ Hi, you looked sad so I thought I’d come visit, can I crash in your guest bedroom?  _ Geno’s busy, he’d tell Sid he didn’t need his hand held, that he’s not a rookie Sid needs to manage.

Sid sighs and stuffs the phone back in his pocket. He pulls out the paperback he’s been working on and settles in to make some headway. He still hasn’t figured out what he’s going to say when he lands, but he’s got fourteen hours to think about it.

He manages to catch some sleep on the plane—one of the benefits of being an experienced flyer was the ability to fall asleep in a plane seat almost immediately—but his eyes are still gritty and he’s stumbling a little when the plane lands and they disembark.

In the airport, Sid finds his bag and pulls out his phone. It’s close to 7 p.m. Geno will be done with practice. In theory, he could be out with his new teammates, but Sid’s taken a gamble that he’s not.

Sure enough, Geno picks up on the second ring, and his end of the line is quiet. “Sid?” He sounds tired, and Sid’s heart squeezes again.

“Hey.” He can’t quite figure out what to say from there.

“Sid, you okay?” There’s concern threading through the exhaustion in Geno’s voice, and Sid takes a deep breath.

“Can you, uh. Maybe come get me? Or send a car for me, or just, like—tell me your address so I can get a cab, or—”

_ “Sid!”  _ Geno sounds alert now, and confused. “Sid, what you’re talk about? Where are you?”

“Um. The airport?”

“In Moscow?” Geno demands.

“I mean, I sure hope so,” Sid jokes. It falls miserably flat and he winces. “G, I’m—”

“Wait out front,” Geno interrupts. “I’m be right there.”

‘Right there’ turns out to be closer to thirty minutes, but Sid finds a bench with a view of arriving and departing cars and waits quietly, his bag tucked up against his leg and hands in his lap. 

When Geno appears, he cuts across three lanes of traffic to swerve to a stop in front of Sid’s bench, causing a ripple effect of blared horns and shouted curses. Geno doesn’t seem to hear it, unfolding from the car and arrowing straight for Sid, who’s standing. Geno is rumpled, his hair on end and dark circles under his worried eyes.

“Sid,” he says, coming to a stop in front of him. He lifts his hand, almost as if he’s about to touch Sid’s face, and lets it drop again. “Sid, what—”

“You’re double-parked,” Sid says.

Geno doesn’t seem to hear him. He’s searching Sid’s face, a furrow on his brow. There are lines of care that seem permanently etched into his cheeks and around his mouth, and Sid wants to touch him, smooth them away, but he doesn’t, mindful of all the eyes on them.

Someone shouts and Geno spins to confront a police officer stalking toward them. The transformation when the officer recognizes Geno is instantaneous. He goes from a thunderous frown to anxious smiles, bobbing head, one hand clutching his nightstick as he asks Geno questions and Geno answers in rapid Russian, pointing at Sid and then himself.

The officer nods, acknowledges Sid with a dip of his head, and dives to pick up his bag. Sid yelps a protest, but Geno motions and he subsides.

“He’s want to help,” he says out of the corner of his mouth. “I’m give autograph, take picture, no ticket.”

When the officer asks if Sid wants to be in the picture, Sid shakes his head hard and takes a step back. He watches as Geno poses, the smile still not reaching his eyes, and then they’re finally free and Geno is helping him into the car, hovering until Sid is in before striding around to his own side.

He gets in and puts the car in drive without looking at Sid, peeling out of the arrivals lane and weaving through traffic at a breakneck speed. Sid gulps, grabs the door handle in one hand and his seatbelt in the other, closes his eyes, and prays to survive.

Geno drives like a maniac pretty much always, but what Sid hadn’t realized was that pretty much everyone in Moscow drives the same way. All he can hear are screeching tires, honking horns, curses shouted in Russian. The sun is down and the lights in the city are blinking on, a few at a time, when Sid dares open his eyes again. He stares out at the buildings as Geno whips past cars, muttering under his breath in Russian. He sounds angry, but it could just be at the traffic, so Sid sits still and watches him.

Geno is wearing tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt that’s seen better days. There’s a frayed hole in the collar, several worn bare spots throughout the shirt, and something’s been spilled on the pants. He doesn’t smell like he hasn’t been showering, but Sid went through his concussion and those terrible days when he thought he’d never play again and he recognizes depression when he sees it.

He probably has to shower at the rink after practice, Sid thinks. He aches to touch Geno, just to feel his solid warmth, his soft skin and wiry muscle. But he has a feeling he’ll be rebuffed if he tries, so he keeps his hands to himself. Anyway, he thinks as Geno slams on the brakes and shouts something at the driver in front of them, he’d like to live through this experience, and distracting Geno right now is probably a bad idea.

He spends the rest of the ride alternating between looking at Geno and staring out the window as Moscow passes him by. Huge stone buildings and hulking cement monstrosities stand cheek-by-jowl, the juxtaposition jarring. There are a lot of people out and about, and traffic has slowed to a crawl.

Just as Sid is about to open his mouth, say…  _ something, _ he’s not sure what, just to break the horrible silence blanketing the car, Geno whisks down a side street, around a corner, and into a parking garage.

“My place,” he says. “Up there.” He points at presumably the penthouse, and climbs out of the car.

Sid follows suit. Jetlag is catching up to him. His eyes feel like they’re lined with sandpaper and he stretches, lifting his arms up over his head to shake as much lingering stiffness from his muscles as possible. When he comes down off his toes, Geno is swinging his bag out of the trunk. He twitches it away when Sid reaches for it.

“I can take.”

Sid mutters but follows him to the elevators. They ride in silence up to the top and step out into a beautifully appointed living space that makes Sid blink. An elephant carved from pink marble stands in the corner, balancing a lamp on its back that sheds warm, golden light over the entryway. The floor is marble too, black this time, thick rugs dotting its cold surface. Geno doesn’t give him time to look around, leading him briskly down a hall to a bedroom at the far end and pushing the door wide.

“You’re stay here,” he says.

“Oh,” Sid says, fidgeting. Geno doesn’t look particularly welcoming. “I don’t have to, G. I can get a hotel—”

“You’re stay here,” Geno repeats, and pushes Sid’s bag into the room with his foot. It bumps gently off the end of the bed and Sid sighs and steps in after it.

“It’s nice,” he says, looking around. It  _ is, _ too. The decorator had clearly known their stuff. An opulent tapestry-like bedspread gleams gold and silver under the light from the hall, throwing shards of silvery gold across the art that graces the walls. Sid doesn’t know much about art, but these look old, and expensive. The bed is clearly the focal point of the room, with its heavy mahogany frame, but the view’s not bad either, Sid discovers when he crosses to a window and looks down at Moscow spread below him. 

He turns to find Geno gone from the doorway. Sid takes a minute to take off his shoes and splash his face in the bathroom sink, and then he goes in search.

Geno is in the kitchen, back to the door. He’s looking in the fridge and Sid stops on the threshold to watch him for a minute. Geno’s lost weight—he always does, during the playoffs, but he usually puts it back on quickly in the off-season. But now his shirt hangs from his shoulders that are too sharply bony under the worn fabric, and Sid can tell that the pants are staying up more through willpower than anything else.

“Hey,” he says softly.

Geno turns, closing the fridge door, and Sid acts on instinct, stepping into his arms. Geno lets out a soft noise but Sid just puts his face on Geno’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around his lean waist. He can hear Geno’s heart beating under his ear, soft and rapid, and he closes his eyes. After a minute Geno lifts his arms and settles them around Sid’s shoulders. He whispers something, but it’s low enough that Sid thinks it wasn’t meant for his ears, so he doesn’t ask.

They stand like that for several minutes, until Geno’s grip eases slightly and Sid takes the hint and steps back. The tips of Geno’s ears are red.

“Why you’re here, Sid?” he asks, looking at the floor between them.

Sid rests a hip against the counter. “I needed a vacation.”

“You  _ on _ vacation,” Geno points out. “You in Canada, Cole Harbour, hiding from world. Your favorite thing, yes?” He sounds  _ bitter. _

Sid blinks. “Whoa, hang on. Are you mad at me?”

Geno spins on his heel and stalks away, but Sid is not to be deterred. He’s right behind him into the living room, where Geno whirls. He looms over Sid, but Sid isn’t intimidated. Geno hasn’t been able to use his size to push Sid around since they were rookies together. He raises his chin, daring Geno to say something.

Instead, he blows out a frustrated breath, clutching at his hair. “You didn’t come.”

“To Worlds?” Sid asks. He’s genuinely trying to follow, but he can’t quite grasp the logic at play here. “What are you talking about, G?”

“You’re leave, go to Canada. Say no to Worlds. Leave everyone.” Geno makes a vague gesture like it’s somehow supposed to convey whatever it is he’s feeling.

“Are you upset because you’re here and I’m not?” Sid asks. “I’d barely have gotten to see you if I  _ had _ come, G. I’d have been with the Canadians, and you’d be with the Russians.”

“Forget it,” Geno snaps, and turns away. Then he’s back. “How long you’re here for?”

“I don’t know,” Sid admits. “I—this was impulse. I just—I wanted to see you, I guess.”

Geno spreads his arms. “You see me. Happy?” He’s almost sneering, frustration and pain twining through his face, and Sid swallows hard.

“Not really,” he admits. “Are you?”

Geno spits something in Russian. Sid’s guessing it’s a negative, although it goes on for long enough that he begins to wonder what exactly he’s saying.

“I’m fine,” Geno finally says. “You can go, if you’re here check up only for me.”

Sid parses that sentence quickly, years of practice at Geno’s mangled English making it fairly easy. “I’m not here to check up on you, G. I’m here because you looked like you needed—” He hesitates. “A friend.”

Geno’s eyes narrow. “Have friends. Lots of friends.”

“I know,” Sid says carefully. “A teammate, then. You looked like you needed a teammate. Someone who knows what you’re going through.”

“Not going through shit, Sid!” Geno snaps. He pushes by him and disappears down the hall, turning in the opposite direction from Sid’s room. A door shuts with a final click, and Sid is left alone in the huge living room.

After a minute, Sid takes a bottle of water from the fridge and goes to bed. He’s way too tired to cook, there’s no way he can navigate a Cyrillic takeout menu, and he’s really not hungry anyway, although the urge to feed  _ Geno _ is getting stronger by the minute.

The bed is cool and comforting when he slides between the sheets, changed into soft pants and T-shirt, his teeth brushed. There’s no noise from Geno’s end of the apartment and Sid finally closes his eyes with a sigh. He has a sinking feeling that this was a very bad idea.


	2. Chapter 2

When he wakes up the next morning, he’s alone in the apartment. Sid’s stomach sinks. He’s fucked up, and now he has to mend this.

But there’s a text on his phone when he gets around to looking at it.

_ At rink. Practice. Bring lunch when home. _

 

Sid finds bread for toast and eggs on the counter, so he scrambles a few for his breakfast. He eats, washes dishes, takes a shower, and explores the apartment, staying away from Geno’s room. The apartment is lovely and welcoming and so, so impersonal. It feels like a luxury hotel, blandly neutral. Sid suddenly hates it. 

He finds a weight room at the far end of the apartment and perks up. Much more like it. He spends the morning working out, pushing until his muscles are burning with the pleasant ache of exertion. He’s stretching when Geno opens the front door.

“Sid?”

“In here,” Sid calls, and Geno’s footsteps get closer. 

He puts his head in the door, raising his eyebrows at the sight of Sid upside down on the mat, balancing on his shoulders with his knees around his ears.

“Hi,” Sid says, slightly muffled. Even upside down, he can see the way Geno’s lips twitch.

“Hi,” he says, and lifts a paper bag. “Brought food. Hungry?”

Sid rolls out of the stretch and bounces to his feet. “Starving,” he agrees. “I’ll just go shower again.”

“Too many showers,” Geno mock-scolds, following him out of the weight room and down the hall. “Use all my water.”

“You’re rich, you can afford more water,” Sid shoots back, and closes his bedroom door in Geno’s smiling face. Whatever had been eating at him the night before seems to have lifted, making him look years younger, although the circles are still there under his eyes.

 

When he’s done with his second shower of the morning, Sid finds Geno back in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on two plates of pierogies.

_ “Real _ pierogies,” he tells Sid with a sniff. “Not as good as Mama’s, but better than American.”

Sid snorts, sitting down where Geno indicates. Not that he really cares about the pierogies, but he’s relieved to see Geno looking a little better. The shadows on his face have lightened somewhat, and he tucks into his food with a good appetite. Sid has to admit it’s delicious, which causes Geno to crow at a muted volume, and Sid is forced to kick him under the table for that.

Then they let silence drop as they eat, but it’s easy, comfortable, not like the smothering misery of the car the day before.

“How was practice?” Sid asks when he puts his fork down on the empty plate.

Geno, mopping up sauce, shrugs. “Was practice. Nikita good, we’re work good together. Sasha try to boss everyone around, of course.”

“Sounds like Ovi,” Sid agrees. He gathers up the plates and takes them to the sink, where he makes quick work of washing them. When he turns, Geno’s leaning against the counter, arms folded and eyes deceptively heavy-lidded.

“You want to see Moscow?” he asks.

“Oh hell yeah,” Sid says feelingly.

 

The afternoon blurs into a confused collage as Geno drags him from one tourist attraction to the next. Sid’s feet are killing him by the time the sun is setting and he can beg for food as Geno insists on taking another picture of him.

“Don’t you dare post that anywhere,” Sid warns. “No one knows I’m here.”

Geno glances up, eyebrows rising. “No one?”

“Well. Taylor. But she doesn’t count. I just told everyone else that I had something to take care of for a couple of days.”

Geno slides his phone into his pocket. “You’re not want anyone to know you’re here.”

It’s not really a question, but Sid answers anyway. “It didn’t feel like a good idea. Like… too much attention. Although—” He grins suddenly. “At least you could finally take the damn interviews for once and give me some peace.”

Geno huffs a laugh at that. “Come, good restaurant close.”

It’s a  _ fancy _ restaurant, Sid sees when they arrive, and he digs in his heels, acutely aware of his staid button up shirt and khaki pants.

“G, this is the kind of place that requires a reservation a month in advance, and a suit at  _ least. _ We’re really not dressed for this.”

Geno gives him a smug smile and opens the door for him.

Six minutes later, they’re seated in the balcony of the restaurant, the wine list has been dispatched, a personal chef is on their way to take their order, and Geno’s smile is smugger than ever.

Sid kicks him under the table again. “Stop smirking, it looks horrible.”

Geno’s grin widens. “Good food, Sid. Shut up.” He shoves a menu across the table.

“I can’t read this,” Sid says as he looks at it. The Cyrillic sometimes almost seems on the verge of making sense, right until he remembers that he’s looking at an entirely different alphabet system. “Order for me? You know what I like.”

“Steak,” Geno says, rolling his eyes. 

“I like more than steak,” Sid protests, stung.

The wine list arrives before Geno can rebut, and thankfully distracts him. He spends his time picking one out and then stretches his arm along the line of the booth, studying Sid in the candlelight.

“You’re look good,” he says abruptly.

Sid blinks. “Oh. Um. Thanks?”

Geno lifts a shoulder as if to say  _ you’re welcome, _ and silence falls. Music is playing, somewhere deep in the restaurant, but from where they are, all Sid can hear is the refrain, muffled and soothing.

The breeze caresses his face and Sid closes his eyes, relishing the feel of it on his skin. It’s early summer, but there’s still the faintest nip to the air, a lingering cool bite Sid can feel in his lungs when he takes a deep breath. He likes it.

When he opens his eyes, Geno’s watching him, his eyes thoughtful.

“Sid—” He’s interrupted by the wine, presented with a discreet flourish for Geno to taste. Geno does and nods his approval, and the waiter pours a glass for both of them, setting the bottle by Geno’s elbow before retiring with a shallow bow.

“You’re like royalty around here, aren’t you?” Sid asks, amused.

Geno lifts a shoulder. “Sasha even bigger. He’s rent out restaurant for night, pay people to leave early, so he can have to himself.”

Sid laughs quietly. “I would hate that.”

“I’m know,” Geno says. “Sidney Crosby not like attention, spotlight.” His eyes are fond when Sid glances up. “Missed you, Sid.”

Sid takes a careful breath. “I missed you too, G.” He sips his wine, savoring the taste before letting it slide down his throat.

Geno orders for both of them, charming the chef when she appears. Sid doesn’t understand a word, but he smiles when the chef looks at him, and she smiles back, asking Geno questions that he answers rapidfire until she finally bows to both of them and heads for her kitchen.

 

“What’s your schedule like?” Sid asks as they eat. He was dubious about the golubtsy but one bite had melted his skepticism and now he’s wondering how he can get the recipe to surreptitiously try on his own. Geno can never know, of course, or he’d chirp him into the next life, but this is too good to leave in Russia.

Geno makes a dissatisfied noise. He’s on his second glass of wine, cheeks faintly flushed. “We’re go Czech Republic next. Not want to.”

“When’s that?” 

“Two days. Day off tomorrow. Then go.”

Sid thinks about it. “Okay. I guess I can just go home once you leave.”

Geno shrugs, inscrutable. “Only there one night.”

“Oh—” Sid pauses. “You want me to stay?”

Another shrug, just as unreadable. “If want.”

“You seemed… upset with me, last night,” Sid says very carefully.

Geno drains his glass and pours a third, then tops up Sid’s second. “Not upset with you, Sid. Never you.”

“Sometimes me,” Sid objects, and wins a smile.

“Sometimes,” Geno agrees, and takes a swallow. 

Sid doesn’t push it, watching the play of shadows on Geno’s face. He still looks tired, but there’s more life to his expressions. Still, he doesn’t seem inclined to talk, and  _ that’s _ not like Geno at all. Sid tries to ignore the worry that twists in his stomach, and focuses on his food.

He’s pleasantly loose and tipsy when they leave the restaurant and head back toward Geno’s building. The air is cooler with the sun gone down and Sid shoves his hands into his pockets as they stroll, tipping his face into the breeze. Geno keeps pace, trimming his steps to Sid’s shorter legs without complaint.

In the elevator, Sid sways. He’s still jetlagged and the wine seems to have gone to his head. Geno’s hand on his elbow steadies him. He’s guided into the apartment and through to the living room where he flops on the couch with a grateful sigh.

Geno’s footsteps recede and Sid closes his eyes, burrowing into the sumptuous softness of the cushions.

“Not sleep there,” Geno says from above him when he comes back, sounding faintly amused. “Twist back, trainer be mad at you.”

Sid flaps a sleepy hand at him. “I do what I want,” he says, but the effect is somewhat ruined by being facedown in the cushion.

Geno snorts a laugh and sits on the floor beside him, close to his head. Sid rests his cheek on one forearm. Geno’s not looking at him, gazing at the floor or his lap.

“Hey,” Sid says softly, and Geno turns. His eyes are dark and sad, and Sid wants to touch him. He doesn’t. “Talk to me, G.”

Geno sighs and leans his head back against the cushions, close enough that his curls tickle Sid’s nose. “They’re talk of trading me.”

“There’s always talk of that after a losing season,” Sid counters. “It doesn’t mean anything, you know that by now.”

“Had bad season, Sid,” Geno says, so low Sid has to strain to hear him. “Maybe  _ should _ trade me, get better players, two or three probably.”

_ “No.” _ Sid pushes himself off the couch, landing in a graceless thump next to Geno, who doesn’t move. 

“Getting old, Sid,” Geno says. There’s a sad smile on his mouth, and he looks down at his hands in his lap. “Not gonna get better, younger, am I?”

“Younger, no,” Sid says, knowing he’s on dangerous ground. “But G—” He waits until Geno looks at him. “They will  _ never _ get anyone better than you.”

Geno’s mouth quirks. “They already have you,” he says quietly.

“They won’t, if they trade you,” Sid spits.

Geno’s eyes go wide at that. “Sid, you can’t—”

“Can’t what? Break my contract? Maybe not. But I’ll fight them every step of the way and make them regret the day they decided to fuck with you. I won’t let them give you away, do you hear me?”

Geno sits up abruptly and presses their mouths together, there and gone again so fast Sid barely has time to react.

He forgets what he was saying as Geno sits back against the couch, head down but watching him from the side of his eye. Sid touches his mouth with a wondering finger.

“Did you just—was that the wine?”

Geno shakes his head. He looks scared but determined, a mulish set to his jaw. “Was me, Sid. Always me.”

Sid’s forgotten how words work, still on his knees next to Geno’s thigh. Geno fidgets, darting a look up at him through his lashes.

“It’s okay, Sid,” he finally says softly, when Sid still doesn’t speak. There’s even more sadness in his smile this time but he manages it as he straightens, reaching for the couch to push himself upright.

Sid catches him with a hand on one shoulder, surging forward into a wet, messy kiss. It’s sloppy and without finesse, their teeth clicking and tongues searching, and Sid’s head is spinning as he cups Geno’s face, tilts his head just the right angle—there—and sets to work kissing him properly.

Geno melts in his hands, tipping his face up willingly with a soft noise as Sid gets up on his knees and swings a leg over his lap to straddle him.  _ Much better, _ he thinks dizzily. Geno is solid and warm underneath him, hands coming up to bracket Sid’s hips.

Sid pushes all thought away and channels everything into making this the best kiss Geno’s ever had. He knows he’s succeeding by the noises Geno is making, quiet and hungry like he doesn’t realize he’s making them as he wraps both arms around Sid’s waist and pulls him closer, until they’re chest-to-chest. Sid cups the base of Geno’s skull, scraping his nails lightly over Geno’s scalp, and he’s rewarded with a shiver.

“Sid,” Geno pants, breaking away. His pupils are blown, lips kiss-swollen and red, and Sid bends to kiss along his jaw, still cradling his head.  _ “Sid,” _ Geno repeats, but doesn’t go on. His hands tighten convulsively in Sid’s shirt as Sid finds a soft spot under his jaw and sucks lightly. “What—what we’re doing, Sid?” Geno manages.

Sid lifts his head reluctantly. He can feel Geno’s erection through his pants and he can’t resist grinding down against it, just briefly, enough to make Geno gasp and clutch him harder.

“I don’t know,” he finally admits. “What feels good, I guess.”

Geno’s brow furrows. “Sid, you’re—we’re—team. Play together. Can’t fuck that up.”

“Oh, now you’re the mature and reasonable one?” Sid says, smiling to take the sting from the words. He traces the line of Geno’s cheekbone, sobering. “Do you want this?” He wriggles, just enough that Geno’s breath catches.

“Know I do,” Geno manages. “Just—is mistake?” He looks vulnerable, years younger and worried as he stares up into Sid’s face.

“Nothing we do together could ever be a mistake, G,” Sid whispers, and Geno swallows hard and drags him down into another kiss. His hands are already busy, tugging at Sid’s shirt, pulling it out of his pants and fumbling with the buttons.

He yanks when a button won’t cooperate, swears thickly in Russian, and stills when Sid lays his hands over his.

“We’ve got plenty of time,” he says. He unbuttons his shirt and Geno pushes it off his shoulders. His hand is warm when he splays it across Sid’s bare chest, and it makes Sid shiver.

Geno looks up, eyes suddenly wicked and dark, and tips them sideways so quickly Sid doesn’t have a chance to brace himself.

They land on the rug with a thump and Sid gasps a laughing curse, swallowed up by Geno’s mouth on his in the next second. Geno’s half on top of him, lying between his legs as they kiss, hips rolling slowly against Sid’s thigh.

“Pants,” he mumbles into Sid’s mouth. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Sid pushes, trying to get room to take his pants off, but Geno refuses to move, kissing lazily along Sid’s jaw and down his throat. Sid huffs a laugh. “Gotta get off me so I  _ can, _ G.”

“No,” Geno says, and keeps kissing him.

“Do you want me naked or not?” Sid asks, shivering as Geno sucks a mark into his collarbone.

Geno hums agreeably and still doesn’t move.

Two can play that game, Sid decides. He hooks his ankle around Geno’s thighs and rolls them, ending up triumphantly on top. Geno plants his heels and arches his back, trying to throw Sid off-balance, but Sid tightens his thighs and holds on, grinning down at him. Geno scowls, but his breath is coming faster, a flush crawling up his neck, and he rocks his hips almost helplessly, rubbing his groin against Sid’s ass.

“You’re giving me ideas,” Sid says, quirking an eyebrow at him. 

Geno’s English seems to have deserted him. He settles for groping at Sid’s belt, fumbling it open and dragging his zipper down. Sid can’t help the groan that’s pulled from him when Geno slips one huge hand inside and gets his fingers around Sid’s shaft. The angle is awkward and uncomfortable and Geno has almost no room to work but it feels so deliciously good, nerve endings firing as Geno strokes, tongue caught between his teeth and a furrow on his forehead.

Sid falls forward, catching himself with a hand and lifting his hips so he can push the pants farther down. They snag on Sid’s spread thighs but he doesn’t notice because Geno’s got a proper grip on him now and is stroking rhythmically, hand just this side of too tight. He lets go briefly, making Sid whimper, but it’s just to lick a broad stripe up his own palm before clasping him again.

Sid’s toes curl and he hunches, one hand on the floor by Geno’s head and the other on Geno’s chest, fingers flexing mindlessly in his shirt as his hips hitch in Geno’s confident grip.

“G,” he gasps, head hanging. Geno is almost close enough to kiss, but Sid’s faintly worried that if he bends his elbow, he’ll end up collapsing. “Fuck, Geno, ‘m close—”

Geno digs the fingers of his free hand into the meat of Sid’s thigh, eyes on his face, and Sid comes with a punched-out moan, spilling in hot, shaky spurts over Geno’s hand. He does collapse then, arm no longer enough to hold him up. He’s breathing like he’s been bag-skated, lungs heaving, and Geno pets his sides, his ribs, murmuring to him in Russian as Sid struggles to regain composure.

After a minute, Geno slides his hands down, under Sid’s thighs. It takes Sid a minute to realize he’s trying to get to his own zipper but then he tries to clumsily help, lifting his hips to give Geno room to work.

“Stay,” Geno says into his hair. His breathing changes, catches, a moan vibrating deep in his chest where Sid’s ear is pressed.

“I can help,” Sid protests. He’s not entirely sure he  _ can, _ actually. His limbs feel like overcooked pasta and he wants desperately to sleep for a hundred years.

Geno huffs a laugh that’s only a little strangled, his hand moving steadily. Sid can’t see anything, but that leaves his imagination wide open. He wonders what they look like, half-dressed, covered in come, with Geno stroking himself right next to Sid’s ass. 

“Touch me,” he says dreamily, half-drifting. 

Geno groans and flattens his free hand across the curve of Sid’s buttock. Sid pushes back into it, arms and legs still refusing to cooperate, and Geno slides a finger over the cleft of his ass, pressing inquisitively against the muscle as his breathing speeds up.

“Yeah,” Sid gasps. “Fuck—will you fuck me, G?”

Geno freezes beneath him and wet heat splatters Sid’s skin. Sid manages to get an elbow underneath him enough to look down, into Geno’s face. Geno’s eyes are closed, mouth hanging open as he shudders through the aftershocks, and Sid can’t resist kissing him again. Geno cooperates clumsily, shivering under his touch until Sid slides off and tucks himself up against Geno’s side.

“Next time,” he says, patting Geno’s abdomen.

Geno’s only response is a heartfelt groan.

They lie like that for a few minutes, Sid drifting again, warm and sated. He grumbles when Geno disentangles himself and grumbles more when he takes Sid’s hands and pulls him to his feet, still protesting, to chivvy him gently toward the bedroom.

_ His _ bedroom, Sid realizes through the mist of jetlag and exhaustion. Geno’s taking him to his own room, not the guest room.

He manages to cooperate when Geno tucks him into the bed and disappears into his bathroom. He’s back quickly with a warm, wet washcloth and makes short work of wiping Sid down, helping him pull his pants off completely and leaving him in his boxers. 

Sid is almost fully asleep when Geno comes back again and slides into the bed on the other side. He’s warm when he presses himself up against Sid’s back, one long arm draped over his waist. Sid hums and lets go, falling gratefully into the dark.

 

Geno snores.

Sid discovers this when he wakes in the middle of the night, his bladder refusing to be ignored. He slides out from under Geno’s arm and tiptoes to the bathroom. When he’s done, he hesitates in the doorway. He should go back to his own room, not muddy the waters even further with… whatever they just did.

Moonlight glances off Geno’s face, silvering his cheekbone. His mouth is slack with sleep, lines of his body soft and inviting. Sid is padding across the room before he makes a conscious decision. Geno lifts his arm as Sid slides into the bed, wrapping it around his waist and pulling him close.

He’s just made the biggest mistake of his life, Sid knows. But right here, in this moment, he doesn’t care. Geno’s soft, rumbling snores are somehow soothing in his ear as he closes his eyes and falls asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Sid wakes up in the morning with Geno still plastered up against him. He’s not at all surprised that Geno sleeps like an octopus, arms and legs wrapped around Sid’s body so he can barely move. He’s pumping out so much heat that Sid’s sweating, but he doesn’t move except to roll his head on the pillow to look at Geno’s sleeping face.

The worry lines are eased in sleep, and he looks years younger, soft and untouched by care and grief. Sid’s heart twists. He wants to protect him, keep the world at bay. Give him the Cup again.

Geno wakes slowly, squinting against the sunlight that washes the room with a watery glow. “Sleep, Sid,” he mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut. “Early.”

“I’m awake now,” Sid says, running a palm over Geno’s forearm to feel the soft hairs. 

Geno moans and buries his face in Sid’s shoulder. “Sleep,” he repeats.

“You can sleep,” Sid says, not bothering to hide his smile. “I’ll go work out and make breakfast.”

“No,” Geno complains. He tightens his grip. “Stay. Sleep.”

Sid laughs quietly and slides a hand between their bodies, to where Geno’s morning wood is pressed against his hip. “I could work out right here,” he suggests, closing his fingers over it.

“Hate you,” Geno grumbles, and rolls sideways just enough that Sid can drag his boxers down.

 

Pleasantly exhausted, Geno’s come still bitter on his tongue, Sid flops back against the pillows and stretches happily. Beside him, Geno looks comatose, eyes closed and mouth loose.

“You’re drooling,” Sid observes.

“Am not.”

“It’s okay, I think it’s cute,” Sid assures him.

Geno cracks one eye open and glares at him. “Not drooling, Sid. Shut up.”

Sid grins. He feels  _ good, _ muscles warm and loose. He could run for miles, if he liked running. “Geno,” he says. “Why were you mad at me when I showed up?”

Geno groans and rolls onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow.  _ “Sid,” _ he whines.

“I just want to know,” Sid persists. “Did I do something? I feel like I did something, and I just… what was it? If you’ll tell me, I can fix it.”

Geno’s sigh is world-weary and put upon. He props himself on his elbows and meets Sid’s eyes. “Not mad at you, Sid. Was…” His mouth twists as he searches for the right word. “We’re swept, first round. Barely made it into playoffs anyway and then—” He scowls. Sid knows that scowl, it’s his ‘English is stupid’ face. “You’re leave. Just. Leave.”

“Why would I have stayed?” Sid asks. He sits up, crossing his legs, and Geno follows suit. “We got swept. No one wanted to even look at each other and I can’t blame them. Once I made sure everyone was okay, what possible reason did I have to stay?” A light suddenly dawns. “Is that why you said yes to Worlds?” he asks. “You thought I’d be there?”

Geno lifts a shoulder. “I guess I’m… hope.”

“Fuck, I’m an asshole,” Sid says. He leans forward and takes Geno’s hand, running a thumb over his knuckles. “I’m so sorry, G. I wasn’t—it wasn’t you I was leaving. You know that, right? You understand?”

Geno nods, twists his wrist and twines their fingers together. “You’re here now.” He smiles as he looks up. “Hungry?”

 

Sid follows him to the kitchen and helps him make omelets, working side by side in comfortable silence. Once they’re seated at the table with their food, Geno takes his phone out and begins scrolling through it. He stiffens and glances up as Sid’s taking a bite.

“What?” Sid asks with his mouth full.

“Check your phone,” Geno says.

“Why?” Sid demands. “Just tell me, G.”

“They’re know you here,” Geno says. He turns the phone around and shows Sid a picture, taken from a distance, but with Sid’s and Geno’s profiles in the restaurant clearly visible.

“Shit.” Sid studies the picture for a minute. “Cat’s out of the bag, I guess.”

“Reporters calling me, texting,” Geno says, taking the phone back and glaring at it as if it’s personally offended him. “Want to know why you’re here.”

“Don’t answer,” Sid says automatically.

“Not stupid, Sid,” Geno snaps. He shoves his phone in his pocket and scrubs a hand over his head. 

“Hey,” Sid says, watching his face. “What is it really?”

Geno blows out a heavy breath and props his elbows on the table. “Gay is illegal here. You’re know that?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I knew that. Are you worried about people finding out?”

Geno shakes his head, then nods, then shrugs. “I’m—” He rubs his face. “Just—I love Russia.”

“I know,” Sid says gently.

“Don’t want to lose it,” Geno admits, and those lines of misery are back, carving into his face even deeper.

“You don’t have to,” Sid tells him. “Nothing we did will ever leave this room, okay?”

Geno looks up sharply at that. 

“I’m not ready to be out either,” Sid continues. “So…” He shrugs. “No one needs to know. I felt like a spontaneous trip to Europe. Maybe I’ll go to Amsterdam, hit up some museums, keep it plausible.”

Geno’s eyes are narrowed, searching Sid’s face. Sid puts on his best smile, the one he knows Geno can’t resist.

“It’ll be fine,” he says. “You’ll do Worlds, get some time off. I’ll go back to Canada, train and do Little Penguins, some charity work that I think Jen has lined up for me. No one will ever suspect a thing.”

Geno stands abruptly and leaves the room. Sid waits a minute, but when he doesn’t come back, he gathers the plates and takes them to the kitchen. Cleanup only takes a few minutes and then he goes in search.

He finds Geno in the weight room, on the rowing machine. Sid thinks about asking what he’d said wrong, but Geno smiles when he sees him, jerks his chin at the stationary bike.

“Get sweaty, we can shower together,” he suggests, and okay, Sid can get onboard with that idea.

 

Geno’s shower is huge, easily accommodating both of them, and Sid wraps both wet arms around his neck as Geno jerks him off, slow and easy. There’s no rush to it this time, every movement deliberate and controlled, and Sid is able to close eyes and let go, surrendering to the feeling. 

When he comes down from the orgasm, still trembling, Geno’s leg is wedged between his own and he’s stroking himself, muttering something in Russian. His eyes are fixed on Sid’s face, and Sid licks his lips. Geno follows the motion and freezes as he comes, head falling forward onto Sid’s shoulder.

Sid holds him until he gets too heavy, then muscles him around into the spray to rinse off again. Clean and dry, they stumble into the bedroom and crawl into bed again.

“Just an hour,” Sid says, and is asleep before he hears Geno’s reply.

 

They spend the rest of the day lazing around the apartment. Geno seems as loath to face the public as Sid is, preferring to order food and eat in on his massive sofa as they watch an action movie in Russian, with a twisty plot that Geno attempts to explain to Sid in between bites. There are a lot of explosions and Sid gives up quickly on trying to follow it, listening to Geno’s deep voice intertwining with the dialogue from the television.

It’s a good day, he thinks to himself, watching Geno’s face in the flickering light from the screen. No pressure, no obligations, just his favorite person and a lot of really hot sex.

Geno shouts something at the television and Sid jerks, pulled out of his reverie. 

“Do you hear something?”

“Your phone,” Geno mumbles through the mouthful he’d just shoved in. “Ringing.”

“You couldn’t tell me before now?” Sid yelps, scrambling off the sofa as Geno shrugs and looks back at the television.

 

It’s Taylor, Sid sees when he gets to the bedroom, and she’s called at least five times. Sid checks the time as he answers. 

“What’s wrong?”

“You’ve been outed.”

Sid freezes, horror nailing his feet to the floor.

“Wait, shit, I didn’t mean it like that!” Taylor says frantically, and it’s like a weight is lifted off Sid’s chest and he’s able to draw breath again. “Sorry Squid, I didn’t mean to freak you out—I just meant… people know you’re in Russia.”

Sid sits down on the bed, legs suddenly watery. “Yeah, I know,” he manages. “We’ve been hiding inside all day. Geno’s going to the Czech Republic tomorrow.”

“Are you coming home then?”

“I was thinking I’d stay another day or two,” Sid hedges, and he can almost  _ hear _ Taylor’s frown.

“What are you doing, Sid?”

“Staying with an old friend,” Sid retorts. “He needed—needs—someone to remind him that one bad season doesn’t mean anything.”

“Uh-huh.” Taylor’s tone is dry as the Gobi.

“I’ll talk to you later,” Sid says.

“Be careful,” Taylor says.

“Of  _ what?” _ Sid snaps, temper suddenly bubbling up. 

“Of him,” Taylor replies, her tone even.

“He’s not porcelain, Taylor, he’s a grown man, and I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you do,” Taylor says flatly. “And he’s a lot more fragile than he lets on.”

“Bye, Taylor,” Sid says loudly, and hangs up.

 

Geno’s still in the same position when he wanders back into the living room, long legs stretched across the cushions and focus on the television.

“What’d I miss?” Sid asks, forcing cheer into his voice. He sits down between Geno’s spread legs and leans back against him as Geno proceeds to explain the still-baffling plot.

Taylor doesn’t know what she’s talking about, he tells himself, letting Geno’s voice wash over him. Geno knows Sid can’t give him more than a few days of hopefully excellent sex before they part for the rest of the summer. This was never supposed to be a long-term thing. Hell, Sid hadn’t even considered the possibility of it even  _ happening _ before Geno had kissed him.

Sid and relationships don’t mix. Everyone knows that, Sid better than anyone. It’s the topic of more than a few locker-room chirps, teasing him about his inability to lock anyone down, start a family. 

He rubs his cheek against Geno’s shirt, closing his eyes briefly. He  _ wants _ a family, that’s the worst part. He wants children, to be a father, to teach them how to skate. He’d let them choose whether they want to play hockey or pick a different path, he wouldn’t push them into anything. He’d let  _ his _ kids have childhoods.

But first he has to find someone who can stand him long enough to stay with him and raise a family together, and perhaps even more importantly, someone  _ he _ can stand. Someone he won’t push away with his rituals and superstitions, someone who won’t make him feel as if he was broken for behaving the way he did.

Not even Kathy was willing to go that far, even though she’d stuck around longer than most. But she had a career and she didn’t really want children anyway and she’d never understood Sid’s need for order and control.

Sid closes his eyes as the familiar old panic wells inside him.  _ It’ll never work, you’ll never find anyone who gets you, _ the insidious voice whispers.  _ You’re too much trouble, too much work. Too demanding—no one ever measures up. _

“Sid?” Geno sounds faintly concerned.

“Yeah,” Sid says quickly. “Sorry, drifting off, I guess.”

“Want to go to bed?”

“Well, I’m not getting much out of this movie, and I can think of a few things I’d like to get out of you, so… yeah, let’s go to bed.”

Geno’s eyes heat and he pulls Sid in for a quick, messy kiss before letting him go so they can both scramble off the couch.

 

They lie in bed together, sated and comfortable, Sid’s leg tangled between Geno’s, his head on Geno’s chest. Geno strokes his curls, slow and sleepy, a contented rumble vibrating his ribcage. Sid is halfway to sleep again when Geno speaks.

“I’m leave early tomorrow. Back tomorrow night late.”

“Okay,” Sid says. 

“You’re be here when I’m back?” Geno sounds unsure.

“Said I would be,” Sid mumbles. He wants to  _ sleep. _

“Okay,” Geno says. He drops a kiss on Sid’s hair. “Sleep,  _ zvezda moya.” _

 

Sid is woken in the morning by Geno crouching next to the bed and gently shaking his arm. 

“I’m go,” he murmurs. “You be okay?”

“Yeah,” Sid slurs. He tilts his face up for a kiss Geno willingly gives. “Kick their asses.”

Geno’s smile flickers. “When I come back, Sid….” He hesitates. “We talk?”

Sid pushes sleep away, fighting a yawn. “Yeah, ‘course, if you need to. You okay?”

Geno nods and kisses him again. “Just want to… is okay, talk when I get back. See you soon.”

 

Sid falls asleep again after Geno leaves, enjoying the comfort of the massive bed and quiet surroundings, and sleeps until nearly noon.

When he wakes, he feels decadent and relaxed, better than he has in a long time. He spends the rest of the morning making food, then takes a long shower.

He’s in the middle of a workout when he remembers what Geno had said that morning before leaving, and he trips and nearly falls off the treadmill.

Geno wants to  _ talk _ when he gets home. Sid’s had plenty of ‘talks’ over the years, in various stages of relationships, and he’s not stupid. He and Geno aren’t really  _ in _ a relationship, which means Geno can only want one of two things. Either he wants to end whatever it is they’re doing now, before it goes any further, or he wants to make it real.

Sid manages to get off the treadmill without breaking an ankle but then he just stands in the middle of the weight room, staring sightlessly at himself in the mirror on the opposite wall.

Geno loves his country. He won’t risk losing it, being exiled, just for Sid. He can’t be  _ with _ Sid, not in a way that would make him truly happy. Not when Sid is… who he is. Even if that  _ is _ what Geno wants, Sid will be doing him a favor by ending this now. He’s saving him future heartbreak, he tells himself, but he wants to throw up when he thinks about Geno’s face when he realizes what Sid’s done.

Sid knows what he has to do. He place a call to the airline first, then packs carefully, folding each piece of clothing and setting it in the suitcase with precision. He doesn’t look in the mirror when he goes in the bathroom, knowing all he’ll see there is self-hatred.

_ Geno deserves better. _ Hot on the heels of that thought is another:  _ you’re running away. Like a fucking coward. _

Sid shoves his toothbrush and razor into the bag with more force than strictly necessary.  _ I’ll leave him a note, _ he thinks.  _ Explain. He’ll understand. _

He hates himself so much.

 

It takes five or six tries before he manages a letter that he thinks will do the job.

_ Geno, _ it reads.  _ I have to go. I’m so sorry. I forgot one of my friends in Cole Harbour is getting married tomorrow and I promised to be there. I’ll see you in Pittsburgh, okay? And don’t worry—no one will ever know what happened here.  _

He signs it with a simple  _ Sid, _ not his usual looping autograph, and leaves the apartment without looking back.

 

He texts Taylor from the air and she’s waiting for him at the airport when his plane touches down. Sid walks into her arms and lets her hold him for a minute, clutching desperately at her shirt.

“You fucked it up, didn’t you?” Taylor says when they finally separate.

Sid doesn’t meet her eyes, hitching his carry-on higher on his shoulder. “Can we go, please?”

Taylor follows him to the Jeep and hops in, where she folds her hands in her lap and fixes him with an intense stare.

“Tell me what happened.”

“Nothing,” Sid snaps, starting the Jeep.

“Sure, which is why you look fucking  _ wrecked.” _ Taylor’s stare is unwavering. “You’re running away.”

“How’s Sam?” Sid asks.

“She’s fine, don’t change the subject. What’d you  _ do, _ Sid?”

Sid clenches the wheel. “Why are you even here? I thought you were in Pittsburgh.”

“Took some time off, grabbed a flight as soon as you texted. Stop fucking deflecting or I swear to God I’ll tell Mom what you did to her potted plants when you were thirteen.”

Sid flinches. “You fight so fucking dirty,” he mutters, changing lanes. “Nothing really  _ happened, _ okay? I just realized that it wasn’t a good idea to lead him on, make him think I can give him what he wants when I can’t. So I left.”

Taylor sighs noisily through her nose. “You ran away.”

Sid hunches his shoulders and stares at the road. “I did him a favor. I never should have been there in the first place.”

Taylor says nothing for long enough that Sid sneaks a glance at her. She’s staring out the window, her jaw set.

“Oh, spit it out,” Sid snaps. “You obviously want to tell me how fucking stupid I am.”

“I don’t have to, do I?” Taylor turns to face him, her eyes stormy. “You know  _ exactly _ how fucking stupid you are.”

“I can’t give him what he wants,” Sid says, back to staring at the road. “He wants stability, normalcy, a solid relationship. I can’t give him that, Tay, especially not with the extra factor of Russia being… Russia. He can’t have that with me, not and keep his country.”

“Did you give him the choice?”

“He  _ told _ me he doesn’t want to lose it!” Sid takes a harsh breath and forces his grip to loosen on the steering wheel. “He straight up  _ said _ it was too important to risk. You  _ know _ I’m doing the right thing here. I never should have—going over there was the first stupid thing I did. Falling into bed with him was the second. This—” His breath hitches and he blinks away the sudden stinging in his eyes. “This is the first  _ smart _ thing I’ve done.”

“Oh, Squid.” Taylor reaches over and covers his hand with hers. “It’s fucked up. I’m so sorry.”

“He’ll be fine.” Sid wishes he didn’t sound like he was trying to convince himself. “He will. He’s tough. He’ll bounce back soon, find a girl who can give him babies.”

Taylor says nothing, but her hand tightens on his.

 

He’s got half a dozen texts and missed calls on his phone, he sees when he’s finally collected Sam and they’re home.

Sid’s heart turns over and sinks as he scrolls through the messages.

_ Sid, you okay? _

_ What happened? _

_ Not just wedding, is it? _

_ Please Sid, talk to me. _

Sid knuckles at his eyes, takes a deep breath, and hits Call before he can change his mind.

Geno picks up on the first ring. “Sid?”

“Hey!” Sid says, forcing cheer into his voice. “Did you win?”

“Sid, where you go?”

“I left you a note,” Sid says. “Didn’t you get it?”

“Of course I got it,” Geno snaps. “Why you’re leave? You said—”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Sid says. “My friend is getting married, I’m in his wedding, I  _ had _ to come back. It’s not like we were doing anything serious, right? I just—I had to come home.”

Geno’s silence is telling.

“G,” Sid says carefully. “Are you okay?”

Geno doesn’t answer for a long time. When he does, he sounds defeated. “Yes, Sid. See you in September.” He hangs up without waiting for an answer.

_ And that’s that,  _ Sid tells himself.  _ It’s for the best. _ He ignores the way his heart is cracking apart as he pushes his phone in his pocket and whistles for Sam. Geno will take a few days to be angry and hurt, and then he’ll get over it, just like he always does. He’ll be back for the start of the preseason ready to go, and nothing will have changed.

 

He ignores social media for the rest of the summer. Taylor doesn’t send him any more pictures of Geno, which makes him distantly grateful. Instead he pours himself into training, focusing on getting into even better shape than ever, pushing himself to the limits until he’s so exhausted all he can do is fall into bed at the end of the day, too tired to think.

Nate joins him for training, still haggard and miserable from the Avs’ loss to the Sharks, and Sid is grateful for the opportunity to distract himself. He takes him out for drinks, talks him through the loss, lets him blame himself as much as he needs to before gently shutting down the recrimination.

He likes Nate so much, like the little brother he’d never had. Nate long ago lost the starstruck hero worship, and now they’re comfortable together in a way that Sid’s not really used to with many people. It’s nice, and it helps keep him from thinking about… things.

 

Little Penguins is another welcome distraction.  He spends two weeks with the camp, learning everyone’s names, memorizing key details about them. He talks to parents, handles the media, smiles graciously, pretends there’s not a hole in his chest that isn’t going away.

In late August, Taylor sends him a picture. Sid knows what it’s going to be before he opens it.

Geno smiles up at the camera, arm around a petite brunette who’s snuggled possessively up against his side, her arm wrapped around his waist.  _Evgeni Malkin and new girlfriend!_  the headline reads.

Sid doesn’t move for a long minute.  _ Okay, _ he thinks numbly.  _ Okay, that’s good. I hope she’s good to him. _

He doesn’t reply to Taylor’s message.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Work and health slowed me down a bit.

He’s back in Pittsburgh in September, fresh and rested and ready for the season to start. He spends some time getting settled back into his house, starting subscriptions up again, handling mail, calling the cleaning service, going grocery shopping. He’s recognized, of course, but Pittsburgh is as fiercely protective of him as ever, and no one asks for more than a quick selfie and an autograph before he’s allowed to leave with a quick wave.

Finally, though, he admits to himself that he’s delaying the inevitable. He heads for the practice rink with a pit in his stomach, clutching the wheel as if that will help calm his nerves.

Inside it’s the usual chaos, the baby Pens from Wilkes-Barre milling in one corner and whispering among themselves as they watch the veterans practicing. Phil, Tanger, and Horny are talking in another corner. Geno is nowhere to be seen. Sid feels it when he’s spotted, a change in the atmosphere, but he pretends not to notice. Hefting his bag over his shoulder, he lifts a hand in a general wave and heads around the rink toward the locker room.

Tanger’s off the ice before he gets there, wrapping him up in a huge hug. “You look good,” he says when he lets him go.

“So do you,” Sid tells him. “How’s the family?”

Tanger beams. He’d be pulling out his phone to show him pictures if he had it, Sid knows. “They’re good, so good.”

“Glad to hear it,” Sid says, slapping him on the shoulder. “You’ll let me babysit soon, right?”

The locker room is a shambles, equipment and clothing strewn everywhere. Sid picks his way to his stall and makes quick work of changing. 

He takes to the ice, letting the feeling of rightness sweep through him, the way his blades bite into the surface, the satisfaction of a perfectly executed edgework drill settling deep into his bones. Once he’s warmed up, he joins the vets, who all greet him with hugs and back slaps. Geno is still not there, and Sid refuses to read anything into that.

The first day is more for introductions and getting comfortable on the ice again, with new players and lineups. They take it slow, Sully not pushing them for anything just yet.

Sid is sweaty when they’re done but not tired. Instead he’s full of nervous energy, leaving him buzzing and on edge.

“Where’s Geno?” he asks Sully after everyone’s been released. He thinks he’s managed to keep his tone sufficiently casual.

Sully glances at him. “Flight was delayed, he got in late and he’s sleeping off the jetlag. He’ll be here tomorrow.”

Sid arrives for practice early the next morning. He’s on the ice before anyone else has even arrived, practicing more edgework and crossover drills as people trickle into the rink and head for the locker room.

He doesn’t look up when Geno comes through the door, throwing himself into his footwork practice with even more intensity. Still, every atom of his being is focused on Geno’s broad shoulders as he stops by the rink for a minute, hesitating as if he wants to say something before turning and heading for the locker room.

_ It’s fine, _ Sid tells himself, but he knows he’s lying to himself.

Still, his smile is awkward but not forced when Geno steps onto the ice. “Hey, G,” he says, sliding to a stop beside him. “You look good.”

Geno’s put the weight and muscle back on and the shadows under his eyes are gone. His skin is clear, hair shiny, and his eyes are sharp as they scan Sid’s face.

“You too,” he finally says. He doesn’t hug him, and Sid doesn’t offer.

He turns his attention instead to meeting the rookies and callups, introducing himself and spending time talking to them as Sully puts groups in drills. He’s acutely aware of Geno on the opposite end of the rink, talking to Phil in a quiet whisper.

_ This is the best possible outcome, _ Sid tells himself.  _ Geno’s not mad, he’s in good shape. We’re okay. He’s got a girlfriend now, he doesn’t have to hide her, of course he’s happy. Whatever we were in Russia, it’s over. _

“I’m going to die alone,” he tells Tanger, who snorts.

“Probably,” he says.

“You don’t have to  _ agree _ with me.”

Tanger quirks an eyebrow. “You want me to tell you how easy to love you are?”

“Yes,” Sid admits.

Tanger laughs out loud and slings an arm around Sid’s neck. “You are so easy to love,  _ ami,” _ he says. “You drive me crazy, but you’re the best. You’ll find someone.”

Sid punches him in the ribs for the ‘crazy’ remark and they scuffle for a few minutes. When he emerges, breathless with laughter, his jersey pulled up and halfway over his head, Geno is watching him. His dark eyes are unreadable from the far end of the rink where he’s standing, but Sid’s smile slides off his face and he yanks his jersey back down as he turns away.

He’s still on a line with McCann and Guentzel, which makes him happy. Jake’s been able to read his mind for awhile now, and Sid has a feeling that Jared’s not going to be far behind. Everything clicks when they’re together on the ice, passes connecting smooth and sweet every time, and Sid feels almost giddy with the  _ rightness _ of it when he drop passes to Jared, who tips it in over Murray’s elbow with a delicate touch.

Then Sully announces they’re going to work on their penalty kill unit, and Sid’s stomach drops again.

That means he’s on a line with Geno. Geno who barely meets his eyes, who won’t even talk to him, who smiles and laughs with Phil like everything’s fine when Sid  _ knows, _ he knows—

He doesn’t know anything, he tells himself fiercely.  _ Nothing’s really changed. We just have to find a new way to balance. _

The practice is disastrous. Their opponents make short work of turning over the puck and scoring on them, over and over. Sid’s passes to Geno can’t seem to connect. Geno chooses almost anyone else to pass to. 

It’s a mess. Sid’s finally had enough after the umpteenth missed pass, and he hurls his stick across the ice and heads for the locker room. No one meets his eyes as he leaves.

He has to fix this, he knows. It’s his fault this even happened. Now he has to make it right, so the team doesn’t suffer. He has to talk to Geno.

He’s at Geno’s front gate before it occurs to him that maybe he should have warned Geno he was coming.

_ Too late, _ he decides. He punches in the code and drives through the gates before he can change his mind.

It takes Geno several minutes to come to the door and Sid shifts his weight, more and more nervous by the second.

When the door opens, Geno stares at him. His hair is rumpled and he looks disheveled, like he’d been napping.

“Um. Hi,” Sid says.

“What you want, Sid.” Geno’s tone is flat and uncompromising.

“To talk?” Sid asks. “Please, G—Geno, I just need to talk to you.”

Something flashes across Geno’s face and he opens his mouth, then snaps it shut again and steps aside, gesturing ungraciously for Sid to enter.

In Geno’s huge kitchen, Sid tries to remember what he was going to say. Geno reaches into the fridge and emerges with a beer. He doesn’t offer Sid anything.

“Talk then,” he says, and pops the lid.

“I’m—I need to…” Sid shoves a hand through his hair. “How’s your girlfriend?”

Geno’s eyebrows go up. “My—who?”

“The girl you were with—Taylor sent me the picture. You looked… happy.”

Several complicated expressions chase themselves over Geno’s face but he finally just shakes his head. “Not my girlfriend, Sid. What you want?”

Sid swallows hard. Nothing for it. “Look. Are you angry at me for leaving?”

Geno tilts his head, expression mocking. “Why I’m be angry, Sid? You’re say you stay, say you’re be there when I’m home, then you’re disappear. I’m only think you’re kidnapped or— _ ograbili.” _ His mouth twists. “You’re not answering phone. Thought maybe you’re dead, so I’m text Taylor. She say you fine, went home, no need to worry. So—” He shrugs and takes a swallow of beer.

Guilt surges through Sid. “I’m sorry,” he says. Geno snorts rudely but doesn’t answer, and Sid plows on. “I shouldn’t have—look, I never should have left like that, without warning. But I mean—” He swallows hard. This is the hard part. “We were just having fun. It didn’t—” He takes a breath. “It didn’t mean anything, right? You said you don’t want to lose Russia, I understand that, so it was just—” He fumbles but barges on. “And now the team is suffering because we can’t seem to connect, and I just want to fix this. For the team.”

Shock is rapidly morphing into anger on Geno’s face. “You stupid  _ suka,” _ he spits.  _ “Vzyal i sbezhal, nichego ne skazav.”  _ Sid doesn’t understand a word that’s coming out of his mouth but he holds very still as Geno continues. _ “Ty chto-to pochuvstvoval ko mne, da? Pochuvstvoval i ispugalsya? Strashno stalo, chto ya tozhe mogu tebya polubit'?”  _ He slams the beer down on the counter and Sid stiffens.  _ “Ya dostoin bolshego,” _ Geno snarls. “Get out.”

“G—”

_ “Ne smey tak menya nazyvat.” _ Geno sucks in a deep breath, clearly forcing himself to calm. “Get out, Sid. We not friends. We play together. I’m pass to you, okay? Make you happy. Keep team together.”

“Geno,” Sid says, but Geno shakes his head, fury carving deep lines into his face.

“Leave,” he says, and his voice is hard and implacable.

Sid goes. He glances over his shoulder as he steps out the door. Geno is in the same place, staring at his beer bottle on the counter. He doesn’t look up as Sid quietly closes the door.

~~~

He’s made everything worse. Sid drives home without really seeing the road, replaying what happened. Geno’s face, twisted with anger and frustration and hurt. The way his big hands clenched on the counter as he shouted at Sid, words Sid didn’t understand but that didn’t matter. He’d made himself clear.

They’re playing the Knights the next day, and Sid wakes up that morning sick to his stomach. Geno seems not to notice him at the rink, smiling and laughing with Phil and Tanger, and the lump in Sid’s gut grows.

Sully pulls him aside after practice. “Everything okay, Sid?”

“Sure, Coach,” Sid says, managing a smile he thinks is fairly plausible.

Sully doesn’t appear convinced. “You and Geno have a fight?”

Sid winces. “Not… really?”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Sully says dryly. “Don’t let this get in the way of the team.”

“No, Coach.” Sid leaves as quickly as he can, head down so no one else can stop him.

The game is not as much of a disaster as Sid expected it to be. Horny goes to the box for a hooking and Sid and Geno line up for the penalty kill. He knows Geno is still angry at him, can feel it radiating from his tense form, but somehow their passes connect, their usual telepathy seems to be at least somewhat functional, and they kill off the penalty without too much difficulty.

Still, they lose the game, a stinging 5-1 defeat, and Sid sits through the media questions with his usual bland smile plastered on, counting down the seconds until Jen cuts him loose and he can escape.

He takes the time to go around the room, lingering with the rookies and making sure everyone is reassured, bolstered for their next game. But finally, finally he can leave, cutting through the parking lot with his head down.

On balance, he really shouldn’t be surprised to see Flower leaning against his car, arms folded.

“You should be out celebrating,” Sid says.

Flower straightens, twitching his cuff down. His shrug is as elegant and careless as ever, and Sid’s heart twists.

“They can do without me for one night,” Flower says, and holds out his arms.

Tears sting Sid’s eyes and he steps forward, pressing his face to Flower’s bony shoulder. 

“I’ve missed you so much,” he manages as he finally pulls back.

Flower winks at him. “Who wouldn’t,  _ cher? _ Come on, let’s go. I’m hungry.”

Sid laughs almost helplessly and unlocks the car.

Flower rambles about his family on the drive back to Sid’s house, showing him pictures at stoplights and regaling him with Scarlett’s and Estelle’s reactions to James’ arrival. He sounds happy, relaxed and satisfied with his life, and Sid feels his heart lightening. No matter what happens, he still has his best friend.

At the house, Sid heats a casserole and pulls out beer for both of them. Flower accepts the bottle and fixes him with a gimlet eye.

“Talk,” he orders.

Sid collapses into the nearest kitchen chair with a groan. “I fucked up, Marc. I fucked up so bad.”

“I could tell that from looking at you,” Flower says, arching one brow. “Go on, tell Uncle Marc everything.”

Sid’s glare is halfhearted. He picks at the label on the bottle with one thumbnail and tries to figure out what to say.

“It has to do with Geno, doesn’t it?”

Maybe he doesn’t have to say anything. Sid takes a sip of beer and nods.

“What happened?”

“You saw him at Worlds, right?”

Flower nods. “He looked like shit.”

“That’s what I thought. So I… went to Russia.”

Flower’s eyebrows rise. “Did you now? How did that go?”

Sid swallows more beer and avoids his eyes.

“Did you fuck him?” 

Sid chokes on his beer, spluttering.  _ “Jesus, _ Flower!”

Flower just waits.

Finally, Sid deflates. “I mean. Yeah.”

“Ha! I knew it!” Flower punches the air and Sid scowls at him. 

“Done?”

“Yes.” Flower leans forward. “So what happened?”

Sid squirms. “I came home.”

“Sidney.” Flower’s tone is uncompromising.

“We want different things, okay?” All Sid can see is Geno’s face, the anger and pain on it. He takes a shaky breath and Flower’s face softens.

“Did you talk to him, or did you just run away?” When Sid doesn’t answer, Flower sighs. “Oh, Sid, you didn’t.”

“I didn’t know what to  _ say,” _ Sid whispers. “He loves his country. He won’t risk it, not for—me. It’s asking too much. It was safer just to go. But now he’s angry with me, and it’s fucking up the team, and I don’t know how to  _ fix _ it.”

“What do you want, Sid?” Flower’s eyes are sharp on his face.

Sid turns the bottle in his hand. “Long term or right now?”

“Yes,” Flower says, lips quirking.

“Long term… a family. A stable relationship. To be happy.”

“And right now?”

“I want Geno to look at me again,” Sid admits. “I want him to smile at me. To—to forgive me. I tried to apologize, Flower, I did. He kicked me out of his house.”

Flower winces. “Not a good sign.”

“So tell me what to do.” 

“What makes you think I know?” Flower counters. “We need Vero. She’s much smarter.”

“Can’t be that smart,” Sid says, getting up to check on the casserole. “She married you, after all.”

Flower squawks and Sid laughs, dodging the foot he shoves out.

They spend the rest of the evening talking about anything but Geno. Finally, though, Flower has to go back to the hotel. They embrace, and if Sid clings a little tighter than he intended, presses his face into Flower’s shoulder for a heartbeat too long, Flower doesn’t mention it. He just pats him on the back, then lets him go.

“When you come to Vegas, clear your evening. The girls are dying to see Uncle Sid again.” He winks and leaves, tall and angular in the gathering twilight, and Sid watches him until his car is out of sight before sighing and going back inside.

How is he supposed to fix this when Geno won’t even talk to him? Sid has no idea.

_ What do you want? _

Sid really puts some thought into that as he cleans up the dinner mess. What does he want? Yes, he wants Geno to smile at him again, to forgive him. But if he’s being truly honest with himself, he wants more than that. He wants  _ Geno. _ He wants Geno at his house, sleeping in his bed, waking up with him, eating all their meals together. He wants  _ children _ with Geno. And Geno… doesn’t want any of that. 

Sid closes the dishwasher and goes to bed. 

~~~

They’re in New York, playing the Rangers a week later. Petey’s in the box for tripping, and the penalty kill unit is up. Sid is acutely aware of Geno beside him but he focuses on the puck drop, winning it away from Zibanejad and sending it back to Horny, who grabs it and races for the far end.

Geno’s in front of Lundqvist, waiting for Horny, who’s covered by Zibanejad and Kreider, both forcing him into the corner and covering the puck. Somehow, Horny manages to kick the puck loose and it shoots out between Kreider’s feet, straight for Geno.

Sid gets into position near the blue line, ready to catch a pass.

He has less than two seconds’ warning before Shattenkirk plows into Geno, knocking him sideways into the goal post.

Geno hits the ice hard, stick spinning away, and rolls into a ball immediately, clutching his leg as the whistle blows and horror floods Sid’s veins. He’s frozen in place, unable to move, transfixed by the sight of Geno writhing in agony, face twisted and mouth open.

Shattenkirk picks himself up and Sid’s suddenly able to move again. He goes to his knees beside Geno, holding out his hand. His eyes sting with relief when Geno grabs it and holds on tight, his grip painful. 

“It’s broken,” Geno rasps.

“Okay, hold on,” Sid tells him. That’s not a problem—Geno’s not letting go anytime soon. He clutches Sid’s hand with desperation, breathing through his nose in harsh, painful gasps. Sid twists, looking—the medics are hurrying toward them. “Can you get off the ice on your own or do you need a stretcher?”

Geno shakes his head hard. “Help—no stretcher, Sid.”

“I’ve got you,” Sid tells him, but then the medics are there, gently but firmly pushing him aside to examine Geno and Sid is forced to let go of his hand.

They won’t let him help Geno off the ice. He watches helplessly as they strap him onto the stretcher and wheel him away, down the tunnel. Sid can’t go with him, no matter how badly he wants to. He has a hockey game to win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm contractually obligated to put Flower in every Sid fic I write.
> 
> (Also huge huge thanks to Yana, aka annie-thyme on Tumblr, who is my resident Russian expert and puts up with my questions with wonderful patience. Any mistakes are my own.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! It's been a rough few days.

Sully doesn’t know anything by the time they leave the ice, shaking his head when Sid corners him. “He’s in surgery,” he says.

“I’m not doing media,” Sid says, lifting his chin and daring Sully to argue, but he just nods. Sid showers and changes in record time and calls a car to take him to the hospital.

He asks the nurse, who clearly recognizes him, if they have a private room where he can wait, and she ushers him to one, starstruck but able to give him a smile when she opens the door. Sid musters a return smile, faint as he knows it must be, and sits down to wait. His phone won’t stop buzzing, so he finally silences it, shoving it deep in his pocket.

Geno won’t want to see him. Sid knows that, but he doesn’t move. It doesn't matter that he probably won't be able to see him. Sid buries his face in his hands and waits.

It feels like hours before someone knocks briefly, then enters. Sid jolts upright out of his half-doze, knuckling sleep out of his eyes, to see a tired looking older man with silver hair and lines around his dark eyes.

“Mr. Crosby,” he says. “I’m Dr. Ingle. Mr. Malkin is out of surgery and resting comfortably. There were no complications.”

“What’s the prognosis?”

“Well, it was a clean break, thankfully. He’ll be out for about six weeks, if all goes well and he doesn’t push himself too soon, but it should heal cleanly and without further issue.”

“Can I see him?”

Dr. Ingle shakes his head. “He’s still asleep, and the pain meds will have him pretty loopy for awhile. How will he be getting home?”

“I’ll charter a plane,” Sid says. “When can he be released?”

“Tomorrow,” Dr. Ingle replies, consulting the chart in his hands. “Assuming no complications, of course.”

Sid shifts his weight. “I have to—I can’t stay. We have a game tomorrow, I need to get back.”

Dr. Ingle nods, unsurprised. “I’ll let him know you were here.”

 

Sid calls the airport on his way back to the hotel, then texts Geno the details. He hesitates, wondering if he should put something personal, but in the end decides against it.

 

Geno texts him the next day. _Thanks for plane._

Sid replies immediately. _How are you feeling?_

 _Shit,_ is Geno’s response.

_How’s the nurse I got you?_

_Fired her._

Sid stares at his phone, flummoxed. Finally he calls. “What do you mean, you fired her?” he asks when Geno picks up.

Geno sighs. He sounds exhausted and in pain and not at all in the mood to talk to Sid. “Fired her, Sid. Leave me alone.”

He hangs up and Sid sputters, then calls the agency.

“Ah yes,” the man at the front desk tells him after consulting his notes. “Apparently Mr. Malkin was… an unreasonable patient. Stephanie did her best to care for him but he simply wouldn’t cooperate. In truth, I think she was rather relieved when he told her to leave.”

Sid hangs up and resists the urge to bang his head against the counter. Finally he shoves the phone into his pocket and grabs his keys.

Geno gave him a key to his house years before, just in case. Sid’s never had to use it before but he’s glad to have it because something tells him Geno wouldn’t let him in otherwise.

The kitchen is spotless, a casserole dish covered in foil sitting on the counter. Sid inspects it—it's still cold, so it hasn’t been out long. He turns on the oven to preheat before venturing deeper into the house.

“G—uh, Geno?” he calls.

There’s a noise, like something falling, from the den, and Sid hurries that way.

Geno’s on the couch, struggling to get to his feet, and Sid rushes to him.

“Stop, _stop,_ it’s just me!” he says, hands out but not quite daring to touch him.

Geno sags back against the cushions and glares up at him. His eyes are glassy with pain and medication, mouth drawn tight. “What you want,” he demands.

“To help you,” Sid says. “Have you eaten today?”

“Go away, Sid.”

“No. Have you eaten?”

Geno presses his lush mouth flat and doesn’t answer.

“Okay, I’m going to cook whatever that is in the kitchen and bring you some when it’s done. In the meantime, when’s the last time you bathed?”

Geno glares at him mulishly and doesn’t answer. Sid, gazing down at him, is swamped by a sudden, shocking wave of affection, so forceful it shakes him to his core and leaves him open-mouthed. Oh _fuck,_ he loves this stubborn, pigheaded man, he realizes. He feels dizzy with it, afraid if he opens his mouth he’ll say it out loud, so instead he clears his throat and turns to survey the room.

It’s a mess. Dirty clothes everywhere, used dishes piled on every available surface, trash littering the floor—Sid clicks his tongue.

“You didn’t let her pick up in here, did you?”

“Didn’t let her _in_ here,” Geno growls. He finally relaxes back against the cushions, although his forbidding scowl is still in place. “She’s bring me food, leave again.”

“Why’d you fire her, man?” Sid asks, bending to gather trash.

Geno sighs and rubs his face. “She’s… hockey fan. Superfan. Went upstairs. In my room. Going through stuff—I could hear her.”

Sid straightens, horrified. “She _what?_ G—sorry, Geno, we have to call the agency. That’s not acceptable!”

Geno just shrugs. “Is Pittsburgh, Sid. Who’s _not_ superfan here?”

“Okay but…” Sid fumbles for words. “That’s still—there’s such a thing as professionalism. I’m calling the agency.”

Geno doesn’t try to stop him as he drags his phone out and heads for the kitchen.

Even angry, Sid is incapable of being rude, especially in the face of unfailing politeness and profuse apologies. The head of the agency is horrified by the actions of their employee and falling over themselves to fix the problem. Sid puts his head back in the door halfway through her heartfelt mea culpas. “Hey, do you prefer a male or female replacement? Does it matter?”

Geno is in the middle of rearranging himself, trying to lie down on the couch. He stops and looks up, pale and sweating.

“No one,” he says tersely.

“Come on, man, you need _someone,”_ Sid points out.

 _“No one,”_ Geno snarls.

“I’ll, uh… call you back,” Sid tells the director, and hangs up. “Geno… you need help. You can’t even use the bathroom on your own, let alone shower by yourself, can you?”

Geno’s scowl somehow intensifies but he says nothing.

Sid sighs, folding his arms. “Fine,” he says. “You won’t let me hire a pro, I guess I’ll do it myself.”

Geno jerks his head up, horror flashing across his face. “No!”

“No? Fine, I’ll call the agency back right now.” Sid reaches for his phone, watching Geno’s expression like a hawk.

Sure enough, he folds before Sid’s hand is fully out of his pocket, collapsing back against the cushions with a frustrated groan. _“Fuck_ you, Sid,” he snarls.

Sid doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead he heads for the kitchen and the pantry, where he finds trash bags.

Geno’s back to trying to lie down lengthwise on the couch when he returns. Sid puts the bag down and bends to help. Geno tries to slap his hands away but Sid ignores him, gently wrapping his hands around the bulky cast.

“I’m going to lift and get it up on the cushion, okay?”

Geno doesn’t answer, his silence sullen, and Sid lifts his leg, settling it with infinite care on the couch, then grabbing a small throw pillow and tucking it under.

“Less strain on the joint,” he explains.

“Didn’t ask,” Geno snaps.

Sid rolls his eyes. “Something tells me if you hadn’t fired her, she would have quit within a day anyway.”

Geno folds his arms, sulking, and Sid resists the urge to pat his shoulder. Instead he turns his attention to cleaning up the room.

He’s done with trash and halfway through with gathering up dishes when the timer finally goes off.

Dinner is shepherd’s pie, cooked to perfection with the mashed potatoes in tiny browned peaks. Sid scoops up two servings and brings them through into the den. Geno accepts his with poor grace, sniffing it dubiously.

“It’s perfectly edible,” Sid says, affronted. He brings them both drinks and then settles into a chair across the room to dig in. For all his doubts, Geno eats as if starving, staring mournfully at his plate when it’s empty until Sid snorts and gets up to refill it.

Finally, they’re done and Sid leans back, resting his head against the cushion and sighing in satisfaction. “Not golubtsy, maybe, but not bad. Who made it?”

“Cath,” Geno grunts. He puts his empty plate on the end table and levels a stare at Sid. “Thank you for food. Can go now.”

“Yeah, that’s not happening,” Sid tells him, and Geno scowls thunderously. “When’s the last time you bathed?”

“Not showering with you, Sid!” Geno seems scandalized.

“Oh my god, G, it’s not like I haven’t seen it all a thousand times. Can you stay upright on your own?”

Geno crosses his arms, scowl intensifying, and doesn’t answer.

“Prove to me you can stay upright long enough to soap up and rinse off, and I’ll let you do it.”

Geno doesn’t answer, but his expression takes on a tinge of misery, and Sid can’t help the way his heart softens.

“I know it sucks,” he says quietly. “But it won’t be long before you’re able to do it on your own. In the meantime, I promise… I won’t look or… I don’t know. Be inappropriate.”

Geno rolls his eyes and Sid grins at him and goes to look for a change of clothes for him. He finds them in the dresser, and plastic bags to cover the cast in the bag of stuff sent home from the hospital.

“Ready?” he asks when he comes back in.

Geno just grunts and carefully swings his leg off the cushions. Sid helps him up, stepping close and pulling Geno’s arm around his shoulders.

“Let me take most of your weight,” he instructs.

Geno sighs noisily through his nose but concedes, leaning heavily against Sid’s side as they make their slow, laborious way to the downstairs bathroom. He’s pale and shaky again by the time they get there, and Sid instructs him to rest his hips against the sink before removing his shirt. Geno crosses his arms over his bare chest, shivering.

“Sorry,” Sid says, filled with remorse. “Here—” He turns the shower on hot, full blast, and steam billows out.

Geno just watches him as Sid turns back to him.

“So, uh. Pants.”

Geno doesn’t try to help, and Sid chews his lip ferociously as he eases his pants and boxers down Geno’s lean hips and over the bulky cast.

Steam fills the room and fogs the mirror as Sid works the pants off in careful increments. He’s holding his breath, he realizes as Geno puts a hand on his shoulder and lifts his good foot so Sid can pull them off, then turns his attention to the leg with its cast. Once the pant leg is off, Sid pulls the plastic up into place, securing it high on Geno’s thigh where no water will get in.

“Okay?” he asks. He makes the mistake of glancing up. Geno is staring down at him, eyes dark and unreadable, and Sid is made forcibly aware of their position—Geno naked, and Sid on his knees in front of him. He rocks to his feet immediately, clearing his throat, and takes his own shirt off.

“What you’re doing?” Geno asks, and he sounds far steadier than Sid feels.

“Well, I’m not letting you shower alone, and I don’t have any clean clothes here,” Sid points out. He points Geno in the direction of the—thankfully huge—shower stall before Geno can say anything else.

Geno tips his head back and groans as the water hits his chest. The noise shoots straight to Sid’s groin and he bites his lip, focusing on the pain and willing himself to not get aroused. Geno’s eyes are closed, letting the spray stream down his body, and Sid reaches for the body wash. Geno opens his eyes when Sid pops the cap though.

“Can do it,” he says, swiping the bottle. He lathers himself up as Sid does his best not to watch, hovering a foot away just in case and ignoring Geno’s scowls at his proximity. “Bother me,” Geno complains, using an elbow to try and push him away.

Sid doesn’t bother moving. “Deal with it,” he says. The water is running down Geno’s throat and beading on his eyelashes and Sid suddenly can’t bear it anymore. “Geno—”

“What,” Geno snaps, preoccupied with soaping his belly and thighs.

“I’m sorry I left,” Sid says.

Geno’s head jerks up, shock in his eyes. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” Sid repeats. “I’m—I panicked. I ran away. I thought I knew better than you what we both wanted, and I thought…” He swallows hard. “I thought it would hurt less if I was the one to—” He can’t finish. Can’t look Geno in the eyes. He stares at his feet, toes already pruning up in the water swirling down the drain.

“What you think I want, Sid?” Geno asks. He’s quiet, suddenly, quiet and yet somehow more commanding and intense than ever.

“I thought—” Sid rakes a hand through his wet hair. “When you said you wanted to talk, I figured you were going to tell me that whatever… whatever it was we’d been doing, we couldn’t do it anymore. That Russia means too much to you, because I know it _does._ That’s why I—” He breaks off, shrugging miserably and still unable to look at Geno’s face.

“Ran away,” Geno finishes.

“Ended it first,” Sid corrects with a touch of asperity. “I did you a favor, G. Sorry—Geno. I never wanted to be the reason you lose your country. I… I couldn’t live with myself if that were to happen. So I left. To keep you safe.”

“You’re never think ask me what _I_ want?” Geno snarls, slapping the bottle of body wash down.

Sid glances up at that, startled. “I _know_ what you want. You want the Cup, you want to represent Russia. I can’t—I couldn’t take that away from you.”

Geno snarls something in Russian. “You _stupid,_ Sid.”

“Hey—”

Geno looks _furious,_ hands opening and closing. “The great Sidney Crosby,” he sneers. “Always know what best, what _right,_ for everyone. You’re not need to ask for help ever, are you? Do everything yourself, because you know best.”

“That’s not fair,” Sid protests, but Geno’s far from done.

“I _loved_ you, asshole,” he snarls, and the bottom falls out of Sid’s world. He’s freefalling, gravity a myth, but Geno is _still_ talking. “I loved you, and I think ‘maybe he feels same way, maybe we make work,’ but then you—you _leave,_ you run away like scared little baby, like you afraid I laugh in your face, throw it back at you?”

“No,” Sid says, shaking his head. “No, that’s not—Geno, I didn’t—

Geno ignores him. “You don’t love me, fine. But leave like that? Run away so scared?”  His lip curls and Sid feels two inches tall. “Apologize if you want,” Geno continues. “I’m know truth.”

“And what _is_ the truth?” Sid challenges suddenly, heart in his throat. “Tell me, G, tell me how I really feel.”

“You don’t love me,” Geno says, turning his face into the spray. “Not _that_ way. I’m just easy way to feel good. Maybe you’re want to make me feel better, fine. But love?” He shakes his head. _“Can_ you love, Sid?” He turns, his eyes challenging. “You’re just love hockey, aren’t you? Maybe Taylor. But nothing else.”

“That’s _bullshit,”_ Sid snarls. He’s furious, fists clenched as he struggles to keep his composure. “You _know_ I love more than hockey, you fucking _asshole.”_

Geno sneers, turning his attention to rinsing off the soap.

Sid clenches his jaw and grabs Geno’s face, wrenching it around so their eyes meet. Geno’s are wide, startled.

“I’ve loved you for _years,”_ Sid spits. _“Years,_ you oblivious asshole. And you never noticed, never realized. Never had a _clue,_ did you?”

Geno opens and closes his mouth, clearly gobsmacked. “What—you—”

Sid ignores him. “I’ve wanted you since… fuck, I don’t even know how long. Probably 2005 at least. And then we won the Cup and I just—I just wanted to kiss you, right there at center ice, but you—you didn’t know, you didn’t care, you were with Anna and—”

Geno catches Sid and drags him into a wet, messy kiss, their teeth clacking and the angle all wrong. Sid gasps into it, clutching at Geno’s arms as Geno gentles the kiss and tilts his head so they slot together perfectly.

“I love you,” he mumbles against Sid’s mouth. “Love you so much, Sid. You love me? Really?”

 _“Yes,”_ Sid manages between kisses. “I only—I only left because I thought—fuck, G, I’m so fucking sorry, I thought you were gonna—”

“Shut up,” Geno tells him, not even a centimeter from Sid’s mouth. His eyes are intent, and there’s joy in them. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Sid tells him. Happiness fizzes under his breastbone. “I love you more than hockey, G.”

Geno gasps in pretend shock. “Impossible!” He’s grinning, tongue peeking between his teeth.

“Oh, shut up,” Sid says. He can’t help his own smile, so wide it hurts his face. “Hurry up and rinse off so you can take me to bed.”

Geno laughs out loud and obeys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come hang out [with me on Tumblr](http://greymichaela.tumblr.com), where I experience intense emotions over dumb hockey boys

**Author's Note:**

> Me, a mostly rational adult with a writing career: "Hey self, you should maybe work on your next actual novel so you can sell it sooner."
> 
> Also me, a goblin with way too many feelings about her faves: "Fuck that, write H/C fanfic."


End file.
